Evidence

Those familiar with this blog are also familiar with the torment caused to my psyche when last May I sat in a hairdressing chair and stated the following “So, yeah, I want my hair to look like it is in a pony tail, without the actual ponytail.” Again, people - NEVER FUCKING SAY THIS EVER. It is now almost the end of March and my hair is a chin length bob, which I like and plan to continue growing until god knows when because I have been damaged internally by excessive scissoring. My hair is finally to the point where I can put it in a ponytail, albeit a sad impersonation of one. But a ponytail. And this morning due to an almost comedic poof in my hair, I did just that (with a green elastic, my ode to St. Patrick’s Day). Because, again, my hair is short it falls out and was in need of a quick fix, I sauntered into my work’s ladies room where I saw it. What the hell is that? What is that? Is that . . . holy shit, that is a gray hair. Oh my god, it is not even gray, its white. White and kinky and glowing harshly under the cruel fluorescent lighting it stood bold. After a wince and a shudder, my fingers quickly excised the intruder from my head of hair. And as I examined the inch and a half long indication of my aged future, it occurred to me that this, this right here, was evidence that my kids were in fact, slowly killing me.